


All Fall Down

by soupmetaphors



Category: Skulduggery Pleasant - Derek Landy
Genre: AU where Valkyrie has been around for the first war, AU where all the Dead Men are clumped together, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Other, Pre-Series, War Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-21
Updated: 2014-11-21
Packaged: 2018-02-26 11:58:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2651237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soupmetaphors/pseuds/soupmetaphors
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Dead Men are the best soldiers, the ones who undertake the missions that no one else will, with little regard for safety.  But even the best falter and crumble, like an empire that has passed it's glory days.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Fall Down

**Author's Note:**

> This is set in an AU where Valkyrie lives under the same circumstances -uses the Reflection, all that- but during the War with Mevolent and his lot. That means she was old enough to be with the Dead Men. Also, all the Dead Men are together. Don't ask me. It's canon-divergence.

They lose Larrikin first.

It is Tuesday.

Those eyes –once filled with mischief- are glassy and gazing off to the horizon as the first clumps of dirt fall onto his face.

Shudder doesn’t speak as he shovels more dirt into the rectangular hole they’ve dug. He just shovels, gaze fixed on red hair that is now matted with grass and soil.

The rest of them stand around the grave, trying not to look at each other nor the body. No one says a word. All their grief is locked in their throats, for they will hear no more laughter, childish jokes.

The man with the red hair is dead. There’s a ghost of a smile on his face. At least he’s the only one happy amongst his brothers and sister.  
Bit by bit, he’s covered under the earth, returned to the very soil which he’s lived on top of for all his life. When there’s not a trace left of Larrikin to see, Shudder pats the soil gently with his shovel, settling it in place.

“Ready,” he says, a little gruffly.

The seven of the Dead Men who stand there seem to be at a loss for what to do: They’ve never thought one of them would be snatched away by something as trivial as this.  
Hopeless speaks first, clearing his throat. “Here lies Larrikin. A man who should have lived longer than the rest of us. From ashes to ashes, dust to dust, he’s returned.”

“We shall miss him dearly. May he be devoid of the illness that took him wherever he is now. Godspeed, old friend.”

The others mumble their goodbyes, words awkward from lips not used to such terms. People die, but never one of their number. In this war, they are almost invincible.

Almost.

* * *

  
Saracen dies on Thursday.

Dexter and Valkyrie barely are able to carry him between them as Skulduggery and Ravel cover their backs, deflecting fireballs and energy streams that are being hurled at them, while the others clear the way in front.

“I know things,” the Adept keeps saying, one hand pressed to his stomach, where blood pumps out like a fountain, the other dangling uselessly by his side. “I know things.”

“Don’t speak,” Dexter says, voice struggling not to crack. Valkyrie tries not to hear, stumbling as they make their hasty retreat.

“I know things, Vex. I know things, I know, but I didn’t know… I didn’t know this.”

It’s nightfall by the time they evade the enemy troops and manage to get back to their camp. Ghastly announces that they’ve successfully intercepted the data for them to bring back to the Council.

But what good is that now that they’re losing another brother?

Hopeless does what he can for Saracen, cleaning and bandaging the wound. But the hole is too deep: The energy thrown has penetrated too much of his flesh, almost touching the bone. He should have bled out hours ago, but is clinging to life by some miracle. Or perhaps it’s his sheer stubbornness to live.

The Dead Men stay up the whole night, trying their best to comfort Saracen. The prospect of losing him terrifies them. It’s too fast for them to process that he’s dying.  
He’s delirious, lapsing into Gaelic, a tongue that he’s not spoken for some time now. Skulduggery responds to his questions with a kind tone. His grey eyes betray little emotion, and it’s hard to tell what he’s thinking.

“What am I going to tell my mother?” the Adept asks, shaking his head.

“We’ll tell her that her boy was brave. So very, very brave,” Skulduggery replies.

Dexter has Saracen’s head in his lap, pushing his damp hair away from his face. When the dying man ceases to ask questions, he tries to keep talking, keep him awake just for a bit longer.

There comes a point where Saracen lets out a rattling breath and doesn’t respond.

* * *

  
It’s Saturday when Ghastly can’t box with them anymore.

They are on a mission to infiltrate the camp of Mevolent’s troops when the alarm is raised. They fight until they can barely stand, drained of energy and spirit.

That’s when the dead begin to rise, animated by several men and women clad in black, standing the furthest away from the Dead Men. Who knew Necromancers could turn down this path, swayed by empty promises.

The dead grumble to themselves, shuffling and lunging at the living infiltrators. Each time one falls, there are two to take its place.

The Dead Men stand in a circle, back to back, giving it all they’ve got. Guns fire over and over, fireballs hurled left and right. Shudder’s gist screams, and it’s apparent that he can’t keep it up for much longer.

“We need to go,” Ravel shouts over the cacophony. Sweat runs in rivulets down the side of his face, disappearing into his collar.

“We can’t,” Valkyrie counters. Truth be told, she’s as tired as the rest, on her last legs.

“There’s no choice,” Hopeless cuts in. “It’s either live today or die and become one of them.”

Everyone knows that ‘living’ is always the option they’ve chosen.

So they break ranks, scatter into different directions to confuse both the Necromancers and their undead soldiers. They’ll meet back at the camp, is the plan.

Valkyrie darts to the right, pushing past snatching fingers and slavering jaws. She can see Ghastly ahead of her, breaking jaws, blowing the soldiers back with a quick blast of air.  
Something grabs her jacket. Suddenly there’s hot breath on her neck, saliva dripping onto uncovered flesh. She whirls around, wrenching herself out of the dead man’s grip. She catches a glimpse of bloodshot eyes and a gaping hole in the right cheek before her hand comes up, firing lightning at the thing.

It’s blown back, a smoking hole in its torso. By now, she’s lost sight of the Dead Men, and the zombies are closing in from every corner. She doubts she has enough strength to take them all on.

“Let’s go,” a voice says in her ear, firmly.

A hand grabs her, pulling her away from the approaching mass. Ghastly has her back as she runs through the throng of undead, using the air to form a protective shield in front of her.

At some point, she notices that she’s sprinting faster, that Ghastly’s presence is no longer there, that the camp perimeter is approaching fast. Valkyrie turns.

The zombies are still there, but no longer facing her. Instead, they shuffle away, towards some tastier, meatier morsel. Through the gap in the crowd, she sees Ghastly. His knuckles are bruised, and he’s bleeding from little nicks and scrapes, but he’s every inch a prizefighter.

He sees her, eyes flicking to the side for a single moment.

“Run, Valkyrie,” the boxer yells, as the first of the horde surge towards him, jaws snapping.

Choking back a sob, she does.

Later on, she’ll hate herself for it.

Yet that’s the last time Valkyrie Cain sees Ghastly Bespoke.

* * *

  
Monday rolls around, bringing with it the fresh scent of death.

They’ve gotten word that Serpine is heading for Germany, to recruit more willing troops that will sooner or later die in battle.

The remaining Dead Men travel across the plains until they are directly on his track, going through the thick snow. Everything is covered heavily in white: It’s a winter wonderland, and back home their families are celebrating Christ’s birthday without them.

On the fifth day of their tracking, they are ambushed.

Serpine himself had gotten wind that the infamous Dead Men are intent on killing him once and more all, and had it set up for them.

They battle as the snow swirls around them, between a mountain pass. It’s hard to differentiate who is friend and who is foe, but they manage, barely.

As the snow beneath their feet turns a horrible crimson, Dexter’s screams alert them that something is very wrong. Dispatching the last of the troops, the Dead Men turn to see Serpine standing over the Adept, who is writhing at his feet.

The red right hand is doing the work it was made to do.

Skulduggery charges, and the rest follow, but soon they too are lying in the cold snow, screaming until their lungs are fit to burst.

“Pathetic,” Serpine says, tone dripping with malice. “And you’ve gone and killed my soldiers too. Well, someone has to pay.”

The pain stops, abruptly. But only for some of their number.

The lucky ones gasp for air, unable to do anything but watch as the man with the emerald eyes grins at Dexter. The energy-thrower’s screams have reached a pitch that Hopeless has not known was possible for man to make.

None of them are able to move, motor functions temporarily disabled from the torture. The snow falls more thickly around them, covering up the blood. There’s a growing sense of dread in their hearts.

Serpine sighs, theatrically. “Oh, let’s finish this, shall we?”

A twitch of that horrid red right hand, and blood erupts from Dexter’s mouth, spraying everything in red: His vocal cords have been ruptured, and most likely his lungs in the process.

The Dead Man’s head falls back into the snow, and he can only gurgle wetly as the last bits of his life melts away.

Serpine’s gaze goes to the surviving Dead Men. His right hand wavers in mid-air, choosing the next unlucky target. It settles on Skulduggery, and those fingers have just begun to wave when Shudder’s gist bursts out of his chest, screeching.

Shudder rises, straining to control the gist. It goes for Serpine’s eyes, distracting him. The other Dead Men scramble to their feet, and they have to leave Dexter Vex’s body if they want to survive.

By the time Nefarian Serpine has recovered, he is alone, knee-deep in snow with only a literal dead man at his feet.

* * *

  
Hopeless burns on Wednesday.

The townspeople are not friendly towards outsiders, especially when they are trying to force them into a war that they do not wish to be involved in.

The rest of his unit do not notice his absence until dawn. They awake to their hands and legs bound behind their back by manacles that drain their magic, mouths gagged, in the back of a horse cart.

All around them are the townspeople, shouting insults and other derogatory terms at something in their peripheral vision. It’s only when they twist around that they see Hopeless tied to a wooden pole, kindling at his feet, misshapen branches and dried leaves.

Valkyrie’s stomach roils in horror of what they’re about to witness: The burning of one still alive. She yells something, but her words are muffled by the gag. Shudder shakes his head, looking away. Skulduggery doesn’t want to look, gaze focused on something in the distance. Ravel has his head down, staring at his feet.

One of the people surrounding the cart notices, and laughs, cruelly. “We’re going to burn him, hang his bones as a lesson to others. As for you, we’ll drown. Such a pity, though, with a pretty face like that.”

Valkyrie tears her gaze away to see them light the fire just in time.

The flames lick the bottom of the pile slowly at first, as Hopeless wriggles, bracing his legs against the pole. His eyes flick about the crowd, betraying no emotion, not even on his face.

It’s only when they reach Valkyrie that they soften for a brief moment, and he gives a slight shake of his head: Don’t look.

But she does, unable to avert her gaze.

Soon enough the whole piles is burning, and with it Hopeless. He doesn’t make a sound as the flames devour his legs first. But by the time they reach his waist, he’s screaming, twisting frantically.

The cart is taken away as this happens, but Valkyrie does not, cannot, move, transfixed by the sight of the burning man, by the smell of cooking meat that makes her stomach rumble, guiltily.

They are thrown in the river, left to drown like rats.

The water is freezing, but Valkyrie’s a swimmer, and her friends have been through this before, albeit without the manacles.

She flops onto the riverbank, gasping for breath. The townsfolk are nowhere in sight, which is good.

As she lies there, breathing hard, she wonders what they’ve done to deserve this decimation.

* * *

  
Friday.

In their hearts, they speculate which one of them is the next to die.

They try to be careful, to be cautious. Yet being the most suicidal taskforce does not help their case whatsoever.

Shudder’s been using too much of his gist lately. It’s starting to take a toll on his health, both mental and physical.

With the death of his brothers, it’s almost too easy to let himself slip right off the edge. He has to remind himself that this is not what Larrikin would have wanted.

The Dead Men are asked to check on the recruits on their side, teach the fresh-faced youths a thing about survival and having no remorse in battle.

They are set to training with the more experienced sorcerers along with the three last Dead Men, and he finds himself up against a young man with a warm smile, still smelling of his mother’s milk.  
At first, it’s easy. He tells the boy to pretend he is one of Mevolent’s men. The blows come faster, harder, and he matches them punch for punch.

But it gets harder, because each time he loses focus he can hear the gist whispering in his ear, things that make his heart shrivel and his mouth dry.

“Don’t,” he growls, under his breath, effortlessly blocking a kick to the groin.

The whisperings grow in volume and ferociousness, until the gist roars in his ears, earth-shattering proclamations that make the world a blur.

He loses control for two seconds, takes his mind off things.

And it’s chaos.

The gist bursts from his chest, triumphantly. It kills the boy, ripping his throat straight out with sharp nails. It kills a girl who is standing too close, her severed head falling to the earth with a dull thud.

It takes eight of the older sorcerers to confront him. They fend off attack after attack, but the gist only becomes more violent. Shudder has no control, slowly slipping off the edge, what little surface under his feet tilting.

When one of the sorcerers drives the blade into the back of his neck, end protruding from his throat, he doesn’t comprehend why the world is so cold.

“There was no choice,” the sorcerer says, in his ears. “I’m sorry.”

It’s Ravel. Skulduggery is behind him, anger and shock written on his face, reaching for the Elemental.

Eyes meet his, and all he can see is gold as he topples over, words caught in his throat.

* * *

  
Sunday is usually the end of the week, but it’s still as terrible as the rest of their days.

“You didn’t have to kill him!” Skulduggery shouts over and over again.

Ravel doesn’t reply, defiantly silent.

Valkyrie isn’t sure she wants to witness this, not when Skulduggery breaks Ravel’s nose with a well-aimed elbow.

Tension is high between the three of them. Shudder’s death only made the strings tauter. She doesn’t think they’ll last the week. She just wants to go home, to parents who love her, to a little sister she loves. She wants the war to be over.

She walks out of the holding cell, sits outside the building. Two hours have passed when Skulduggery walks out, the blood on his clothes a mixture of his and Ravel’s.

“Erskine’s dead,” he says, flatly.

“You didn’t have to kill him,” she says, although she secretly agrees whole-heartedly, parroting his own words back to him.

“He killed Anton.”

To that, Valkyrie has nothing to say.

She stands, looks at the ground beside Skulduggery, but not directly at him.

“I’m going home.”

He does not respond. She doesn’t expect him to.

She walks halfway across the courtyard before he speaks.

“Strike from the shadows.”

A wry smile slides onto her face. “Disappear into the darkness.”

Valkyrie Cain keeps walking and doesn’t look back.

When she comes home, her name is Stephanie Edgley and her Reflection is put aside for her to resume her life.

When Skulduggery Pleasant and she meet once more, her name is Darquesse and his is Lord Vile.

Her smile is bright and brilliant, and there’s a hint of dimples as she rushes at him, aiming to kill.


End file.
